Not Broken, Just Bent
by Schmiezi
Summary: "I am not known for bringing joy and happiness to other people's lives. Least of all to mine." HLV-Fix it, told from Sherlock's POV. Johnlock. If you like to see Mary as one of the good guys, you might want to stop reading right here.
1. Chapter 1

**Notes**:

Set during and after His Last Vow.

If you like to see Mary as one of the good guys, you might probably not like this fic.

Thanks to Davina for pointing out my mistakes (prepositions are evil little creatures when you are not a native speaker) and to GoSherlocked for support, encouragement and thudding. You two are the best!

I do not own Sherlock ... etc.

I am not known for bringing joy and happiness to other people's lives. Grim satisfaction, maybe, when they finally know who murdered their loved one. Relief, when something precious could be returned. Gratefulness, when holding an abducted family member safe in their arms. But happiness? No.

On one very special occasion I even brought adventurous danger and satisfaction to a life, but that does not count for I went and shattered all the good things there might have been by jumping off a roof.

I am not known for bringing joy and happiness to other people's lives. Least of all to mine.

We are standing in the living room. He is there for a short visit, a few stolen minutes, before he and Mary will leave for their honeymoon. (She thinks he just wants to say goodbye for two weeks.) Still feels wrong to have him here as a guest. He belongs here. (Used to belong here. Not any longer. Accept it.) His face determined. He came here with a (seemingly) simple question, not willing to leave without an answer.

"Why did you leave early?"

I remember yesterday night more clearly than I want to. How the fresh air has been a relief after the overheated atmosphere at the dance floor. How I went away fast, so that no one would have a chance to follow me and hold me back. (Still feel the deep disappointment when I realized that no one was trying to.) (Wonder how long it took him to discover that I was gone?) (Wonder if I would like the answer? Probably not.)

How my thoughts were swirling around the same topic again and again. The whole day, the whole last months I had told myself (successfully) that a wedding wouldn't change a thing.

Not the way things were now. Jumping off a roof and returning from the dead in the most clumsy way possible when hearts were already given to other people, that changes things. Going away from London for two years to finally, finally realize (have been really slow on this one) that you were in love with your only true friend, that changes things. Weddings, no. Not with Mary so eager to accept me (why?), not with John generous enough to finally forgive.

Never expected him to love me (me!) in return anyway. Would have been satisfied with living next to him, having unlimited access to looking at him (secretly), smelling him, making him laugh, making him look at me the way only he does. Now, I need to be satisfied with limited access to all of that. Still better than nothing (I presume).

Weddings don't change too much.

Babies do.

How do I tell him that I left because I could not stand the simple fact that everything will change soon (without mentioning that I love him)? Thought about it all night, knowing he would demand an answer to that question. Been so lost at finding a suitable line that I even did the unspeakable. Didn't help. Made him swear to never mention the fact that I showed up at his house in the wee hours of the morning, looking for brotherly consolation (and actually finding it. Embarrassing!).

Now, at noon, I still don't have a good excuse. John is wearing his soldier face. I won't be able to use one of my usual strategies to avoid answering. Only way out now is to play down the importance of it. Put on my best acting face. Make my voice sound slightly flippant.

"Thought it best to retreat before someone could force me to dance." Put as much disdain into the last word as possible.

Does he believe me? Of course not. Looks at me like only he can, seeing through my demeanour, right into my soul (given that I owe one). He smiles (honestly) and shakes his head. "I don't buy that, Sherlock." he simply says, as if deciphering me would be an easy thing to do. When I fail to respond immediately, he continues with a smile: "We did dance together, remember? Call me naïve, but I am very sure that you love dancing a lot."

That is when I make the inexcusable mistake.

For a second, I allow myself to remember teaching John how to waltz. There is a special room in my mind palace for it. A big one, with a proper parquet dance floor. For a second, I go there. I remember holding him, closer than the World Dance Council asks for, excusing it with the fact that we are training for a wedding, not for a competition. For a second, I feel his hand on mine again, smell his sweat, hear the song we used. For a second, I allow myself to love him deeply. For a second, only a second, that love reflects on my face.

Our eyes lock, and something in his expression falls. (No!) He takes one step backwards (stupid Sherlock, stupid stupid stupid) and looks at me (surprised? shocked? angrily!). My breath catches, I try to wipe the horror from my face and fail.

"John," I start, but he won't hear it. Clenches his hand, shakes his head. Smiles that dangerous smile you only get to see when he is really, really angry. (Why angry?)

"You must be kidding me." he says, voice strained.

I am at a loss of words, unable to avert my eyes. Not comprehending the amount of anger behind his words. I am not expecting anything from him, am not forcing him to return my feelings. So why is he angry?

"Today?" he goes on, louder and louder with every word. "Today of all days you do that? One day _after_ my wedding? Sherlock! Now you come out with that, when it is one day too late to change things?" He is fidgeting (he does not normally do that), his hand opening and closing at record speed.

I still don't comprehend what is going on. Why is he talking about changing things? I never expected him to. Why is he …

"Did it never occur to you that one day before the wedding would have been a slightly better moment? Or a week before? A month? Any time _before_?"

And then I finally understand. (How could I have understood earlier? How could I have even guessed that his stupidly big heart is weird enough to love me back?) I must still be staring at him. Want to say something but can't find my voice. Feel my mouth open and close. (Goldfish.) Body is betraying me. (Tears in my eyes? Really? Please!)

I watch him standing there, watching me in return. See his body sagging, his face shifting from anger to sadness. "You had no idea." he (correctly) deduces then. Wish I could look away. He shakes his head, (obviously) torn between hitting me and hugging me. "With your enormous brain and brilliant skills and all, you had no idea that love you."

(He loves me. Loves. Me.) (Not loved. Loves.) (Should feel good, but only hurts.) I shake my head, still left without voice. He (finally) steps closer again. Left hand reaching out for my face. Stopping in mid-air, dropping down.

The fact that his eyes are a bit wet makes the single tear that is running down my face (slightly) less embarrassing.

He nods, more to himself than to me. His voice is soft when he says, "It is too late, Sherlock. I am married. There is a baby on its way. It … it would be WRONG."

I can hear him using capital letters. Of course it would be WRONG, and if there one thing John Watson is incapable of doing, then it is something WRONG. (Would I love him if he would be willing to do something WRONG?) (Is there be anything to stop me from loving him?) (I hope so.) (No, I don't.)

His hand finally makes it to my face. The only contact we make. "I'm sorry." he says. Then he is gone. Gone to spend his honeymoon with his pregnant wife.

I spend an incalculable amount of days on the sofa, trying to resist the urge to pick up the leather box hidden underneath my bed and use what is inside.

Only that I can no longer remember why I resist.


	2. Chapter 2

„No, Mrs Watson. You won't." That sentence, combined with the attempt to step forward, could be considered my second worst mistake during the entire affair. Though it is a bit hard to tell, given the huge amount of mistakes I happen to have made lately.

After escaping my inner Moriarty, I remember opening my eyes on the operation table, and after that, blissful darkness. No mind palace, just sleep. When I wake up again, I feel that one of my hands is significantly warmer than the other. Opening my eyes does not deliver information, everything is blurry.

"Sherlock?"

John. Been with me when the paramedics arrived, my memory supplies. Still with me inside the ambulance. Was concerned. Pretended not to be scared. Surely waited for the operation to be over.

His voice is warm (unlike what has become normal between us after THE INCIDENT), soothing. Not (overly) worried. So I am safe. His figure comes into focus. His face open, warm, but tired. (Concerned about me.) (Again.) (Sorry.) The (very) early morning sunshine coming from the window illuminates his hair. (Love when that happens. But when has be become that grey?) Cannot see his hands, but judging from the way he is sitting on a chair next to my bed, one of his hands is holding mine. (Obviously, the reason for it being warmer than the other.)

Is he doing it on purpose? Better not move my own hand. If he's doing it subconsciously, he might remove it. (Not desirable.) (A stolen moment. Intend to keep it as long as possible.) I hold my hand absolutely still. But my mind starts working again. I remember. John Watson is in danger.

"Mary" I say, my voice raw and weak. Two syllables nearly too much for my weak state. Prepare to explain, no matter how exhausting. No matter how painful for him.

To my surprise, he just gives me a sad smile, "I know."

My brain is too slow. I stare at him for what feels like minutes. Try to focus on his response (but stare into his eyes a bit too long. Wish I could do that more often. Wish I had not ruined everything.) (Too late for that.) (Focus!)

How does he know? Struggle to ask him, get caught in a coughing fit instead. A glass of water with a straw is delivered instantly. (Always caring.) "You have already told me," he explains with a hint of an (honest) smile on his lips. I frown, and he continues, "Four times,actually. We keep having the same dialogue over and over whenever you wake up."

Try to process that. Can't remember waking up here. Can't remember talking to him. Feel (completely) lost. The pressure on my hand increases instantly. "It's all right" he says gently, "it's a common after-effect of the narcotics used."

I look at him and try to smile as well, "Must be boring." He laughs a little. (Been a while since I managed to make him laugh.) (Funny how that makes me feel warm inside.)

"It has just become more interesting again," he quips, "you finally said something new." Our eyes meet (also been a while) and he sobers. "So," he goes on, "my wife tried to kill you, yes?"

Memories of Mary surface in my mind. Mary in front of the kebab shop, "I'll talk him round."

Mary at the wedding, "Oh, Sherlock! Neither of us were the first, you know.

Mary with the gun, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. Truly am."

"She fooled me," I marvel. And not for a moment. For months. John does not answer. She fooled him as well. Does that change the way he feels about her? About me? Will it still be WRONG? I could ask, but that could lead to an answer I don't want to hear.

This is not about THE INCIDENT anyway. If it were, I could point out to John that I have already repented.

I spent their honeymoon by picturing John and Mary vividly. Withdrew from the real world into my mind palace. I spent hours standing next to them on the beach, feeling the gentle breeze on my skin, watching John kissing her (the way he will never kiss me). Soft at first, then hungry, longingly. His hands (that will never touch me that way) on her breasts, on her arse, on her belly (with the child inside, a mere blueberry sized collection of cells at this stage of pregnancy). I saw her moaning with pleasure, her body pressing against his touch. I (closely) observed him, his face filled with pride and satisfaction at the sounds he makes his wife make.

I stood with them inside their suite, watched them having sex. Mary on top (of course), both slick with sweat. I listened to John's heavy breathing, to the fast delivered sequence of "oh yes" and "harder" and "more" he will never say to me. I looked closely as his body became rigid with pleasure, watched his eyes flutter during orgasm, indulging the knowledge that I will never be able to make him look that way.

(Would I have been able to make him look that way if I had got the change? Probably not.)

When their love making no longer hurt me enough, I started imagining them sitting at the beach during sunset, holding each other. That is all. No orgasms, no explicit talking. Just the two (three) of them, belonging together. That never failed to send me spiralling down into desperation.

Not sure how much of that train of thought has shown on my face, but John is looking at me with a (painful) mixture of sympathy and concern. His hand still on mine. I get bolder and squeeze it. Just a tiny bit. He does not withdraw.

"You kept saying that I was in danger," he mentions then. So my inner Moriarty has told me, yes. Did not have time to think it through. (No time for thinking when John is in danger.) (Bit stupid, that notion.) I just nod, and he looks out of the window, thoughtfully.

In my mind, I conjure Mary next to my bedside. Turn her around, look for all the clues I have overlooked so far. The control she has over her facial expressions. (Used so subtly that I missed it. Not just a liar. An experienced one. A professional one.) The gap in her past, starting five years ago. (And the small gaps in her recent life. More than I wanted to see before. Several trips with an unclear destination. A job that does not pay for the clothing she has in her wardrobe.) Brilliant fine motor skills. Come in handy as a nurse. (And as an assassin.) The way she uses to make sure John and I spent time together. (Giving her free time as well. To do what? Remember her face, her bearing afterwards. Too controlled, hiding something.) The love in her eyes when looking at John.

She really loves him. Possessively. That is why she is so eager on being friends with me. That is why she was so eager to convince him to forgive me. She needs me to be their permitted friend so he won't have to chose between her and me. She needs me to be their friend so I can't be his love.

Does she know how much he loves me as well?

John's head spins around. He stares at me. Oh. Said that aloud. (Not wise.) (His hand still on mine, though.) He flushes.

Can't help but feel smug. Mary Watson does not share her loved one. That is why John is in danger. I figured it out. "It's about sentiment," I tell my inner Mycroft proudly. "I detected it anyway." (Making sure I don't voice that thought this time.)

My inner Mycroft looks at me with pity. "So, now you know what will hurt both of you soon. Will that make it feel any better?" I (angrily) make him disappear.

I look at John again. "Just live with her happily for the rest of your life and you will be safe." I tell him. "Everything is all right as long as you love her more than me."

John avoids my glance for a while. Then he sighs, squeezes my hand firmly. "I guess I'm in danger then," he says. My heart does not know if it should open up with joy or clench with fear. I think it does both at the same time.


	3. Chapter 3

For a long time we neither talk nor move. John keeps holding my hand, his thumb softly stroking the back of my hand. I drift off into sleep occasionally, the warmth of John's touch anchoring me.

One of the times I wake up again, John is looking at me thoughtfully. "What kind of danger are we talking about?" he asks, instantly continuing, "I mean, will she take me to the cleaner during the divorce? Or will she stab me in the back with our meat knife?"

(Divorce sounds wonderful to my ears. But can't linger over it.)

Because no, she wouldn't stab him in the back. I don't know anything about her past, but her demeanour at Magnusson's office made it clear that she was trained in what she was doing. No trained assassin would risk facing John Watson in close combat. (Some did so in the past. Not all of them got the opportunity to regret it.)

I know I shouldn't, but I can't help imagining what she would do instead. I am standing in the Watson's kitchen. (My favourite room in their home.) I can see John eating. Mary serves him one of those coffee things she always produces with this tedious machine. Something with milk and steam and flavour. Strong enough to cover the taste of cyanide.

(Would be a brilliant choice. Kills almost instantly, but is easily traceable. Mary knows that I once called it the most boring poison of all. Knows that I normally refuse to investigate cyanide poisoning because it's too clichéd. Knows that her choice will break everything inside me that will be left when John is dead.)

John drinks it. He knows something is wrong after the first gulp, but it's too late. I can see that he feels dizzy. He stands up but sways, has to reach for the edge of the table. He breathes, fast and desperate, but getting air inside his lungs is not the problem. His body is already reacting, his cells unable to use the oxygen any longer. His legs give in, he falls to the ground, his lips blue. His hands cling to the collar of his shirt, irrationally trying to widen it to get air. He panics, his legs kicking frantically at nothing. Then his movements slow down, until a seizure shakes his body. I can tell from his eyes that he is dead before his body stills.

But would she really use poison? Too much of a cliché, maybe.

The scene is rewinding fast, then starts again. This time, John gets up from the table unharmed. He kisses Mary on her cheek. "I need to go, Sherlock has a new case." (Bad liar, John.) She smiles and wishes him fun. When he turns to leave, she grabs the gun from her apron and shoots him in the back.

I watch him drop to his knees silently, then, after a moment of swaying, falling forward, hitting the ground. He is still alive, but just barely, blinking, utter astonishment on his face. His breath becomes ragged, blood spraying out of his mouth, then his eyes lose their light, his dying breath painful. It is over within 95 seconds.

But no, John is a soldier. He would not just die without fighting.

The scene rewinds again, up to the moment when the gun is fired. This time he drops to his knees with a soft cry, more surprised than in pain. He falls forward, but breaks the fall with his hands. He knows he is shot, and he knows he needs help. He tries to get up again. I watch Mary coming closer, a predator waiting for her prey to die. She kicks his arms away, and he falls to the ground once more. "Mary," he starts, reaching out for her. She just smiles and watches him. He knows he needs help, and starts trying to get his mobile out of his trouser pocket. But his hand does not work properly any longer. He fumbles, helplessly, and she ...

There is a sharp pain on my cheek, and the Watsons' kitchen disintegrates around me. I blink at John, who stares at me angrily. "You slapped me," I can't help but blur out. (Stating the obvious? How deep have you sunk?)

"Don't." He nearly shouts. "Don't do that. Stop picturing me dying instantly!"

We stare at each other for a moment. He slapped me. He knew what I was doing to myself inside my head and solved it in his very own fashion. Is it any wonder that I love this man?

"To be fair, I tried to gently shake you out of it first," he feels the need to explain, but my mind is already moving ahead. John mentioned divorce. Does not want to continue that relationship. Wants to leave a professional killer with trust issues and a jealous streak. Who has not hesitated to risk the death of his best friend (me). My subconsciousness was right (of course). John is in danger.

"I don't know what Mary will be capable of doing, I never researched her past." Have to admit that. Seemed a bit good back then when I decided to. Like something John would want. Would have done everything to be forgiven after my return. Even something stupid like not investigating her. I point at his left trouser pocket, "Call Mycroft."

John takes out his mobile (doesn't hesitate a second when I ask him to do something. Does not even ask why. Never did.) and searches his contacts for my brother's number.

"I asked him insistently not to research her as well," I explain. "Tell him to send us everything he has found out about her since then."

* * *

Of course I am right. When I wake up the next time, John is flipping through a manila folder. There is an expression on his face I have never seen before. At first, I thought it was anger. Then I realize it is hatred. Never knew John would be capable of hate so concentrated. His jaws must hurt terribly by now.

When he looks up at me, his face turns softer instantly, but there is something dangerous still lurking just one blink of an eye away. "Her being a professional assassin would be bad enough," he states calmly (never is he more frightened than when he appears to be calm). "She has done things, Sherlock ..." He stops mid-sentence, his breath betraying his state of mind.

I try to mirror his faked ease, but my heart and my mind are racing. "How much in danger are you then?" I ask. He knows me too well, knows I am not calm, but plays along. The only way we can both go through with this.

"Mycroft thinks that he found out about fifty percent of her past. The rest is hidden so well even he couldn't get to it." Not good. In my mind, I correct my assessment of her. Not just a paid assassin. Someone much higher up on the criminal ladder. Someone with enough resources to hide something from my brother. Moriarty had not been able to do that.

(An unusual feeling rises inside of me. One I experience so seldom that I cannot figure it out instantly.)

"Want to know the worst things she did?" John goes on, grim determination on his face. I nod, and he tells me about this job she did in Argentina. Abducted the nine-year-old daughter of a minister. Blackmailed him into transferring a huge amount of money to a bank account on the Cayman Islands. Then arranged the handing over of the girl. Set her free and then shot her in the head just seconds before she reached her father's arms.

(The feeling intensifies. What is it?)

Killed at least two former lovers.

(Fear.)

Been at a similar point of her life five years ago. Settled down with a nice, ordinary man. Got pregnant. Relationship didn't work out, he left her when she was into her sixth month. Two days later she had an accident at home, lost the child. Her description of the accident did not match all her injuries, but doctors blamed it on the shock of losing her unborn child.

(Fear for John's life. And for the life of his unborn child.)

After that, John stops talking for a long while. I steal the folder from him and study it further, while I watch him out of the corner of my eyes. She has managed to become a CIA agent, turned herself into an even more efficient killer by undergoing the CIA training. Four agents got killed during her time with the agency, but no one saw the connection.

There are more atrocities listed up, but studying John's expression becomes more important that Mary's past. I deduce that he wants to say something important, but can't bring himself to open his mouth. Usually I need a Tube carriage and a bomb to make him talk about it. (But he said he loved me, didn't he?) (Shouldn't that help me make him talk? If only I knew how.)

I don't know what to do, so I wait. Try to ignore the increasing fear for his life. Finally, he clears his throat and says, very quietly, "I love this child, Sherlock." His eyes shine with a sadness that (for a reason I cannot understand) makes my chest hurt. "I mean, it is only as big as a walnut now, but … it is my child. I can't stand the thought of being with her any longer, but … "

He never manages to finish that sentence, but he does not have to, anyway. He looks at me, the painful expression burning itself into my brain. (Will be un-deletable, even if I would try.) "I made a vow," I remind him (don't think my own voice has ever sounded that soft before). "Even if Mary is excluded now, the vow does still apply to you and your child. I will think of a way out, I promise."

(Will simply not think about how it will go on now between us. If we can be more than friends now. How a child would fit in.)

He looks at me for another while, then, without a further comment, he leans forward and takes me in his arms. Carefully, without hurting my already wounded chest. It is an awkward embrace. John has to keep up the tension in his spine in order not to lean against my wound, I on the other hand cannot lean forward without hurting myself.

It is an awkward embrace, but with his left hand in my hair and his right pressing against my back, and with my cheek gently leaning against his, it is perfect.


	4. Chapter 4

The short-term solution is easy: Mary needs to believe that John is oblivious to her shooting me and that he still loves her. There is one problem. John has many talents that I could praise for hours, but telling lies is not amongst them. So, when I wake up from my postoperative slumber once more and hear Mary's singsong threat, I am relieved beyond words.

But obviously, we are in need of a long-term solution to be truthful. I also have many talents that I could praise for hours (which I do occasionally) (well quite often, to be true), but dealing with romance is not amongst them. So I decide to use the only scheme I am familiar with. The promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption.

Love has already been promised between the married couple (more than enough for my taste), and I must admit that I am selfish enough to look forward to causing Mary the pain of loss.

John objects to the plan. Not to the basic idea (fooling Mary into revealing at least part of the truth to John, who will be completely surprised and outraged and will leave her for a while until generously forgiving her), but to my time scale. Thinks I should be completely healed before leaving the hospital in order to carry out our grand stage performance. But every day he spends with Mary is another day during which he could give away himself. The thought alone frightens me more than I care to admit.

So, one day (much sooner than he would have preferred) I sneak out of hospital (note to self: tell Mycroft that in the future I'd prefer hospital rooms on the ground floor). John runs around looking for me, asking so many people where I could be. (As if he wouldn't know best. But people are stupid, even the nice ones, and they all believe that John has no idea where I am. They all believe we are not into this together.)

When he arrives at Leinster Gardens, we prepare the stage. John sits down in the wheelchair Billy has stolen for me, and I ruffle his hair (with great enthusiasm. Many times. Until he tells me to stop and proceed with the rest of the preparations. And that I'd be free to ruffle his hair as long as I want in the near future ... Looking forward to that.)

The confrontation with Mary goes better than I expected. I know (theoretically) that John no longer loves her. But seeing the full display of her usually well-hidden viciousness (she knows of course how much bending down to pick up that coin hurts me) only helps John to show his anger.

He is glorious that night. We both are. I place the "surgery shot" lie in Mary's head. John puts all the hatred he felt when reading her file into his performance and pretends not to be scared to death by how sick I really am. At Baker Street we are so convincing that Mary hands us a flash drive, presumably filled with information on her. And all the time I manage to keep the distance from John as if scared off by his emotions.

Only in the very end, when I realize that I have probably driven my transport too far, when I feel my heart tumbling into ventricular fibrillation, I instinctively stumble towards him, his hold on me the last thing I remember when darkness surrounds me.

* * *

When I wake up, I am not lying in hospital, but sitting on the bed of John's room. Have unintentionally entered my mind palace. That only happens when I am close to death, the last time mere days ago.

John's room became part of the mind palace when I left London. I needed a place to retreat, somewhere safe. Funny choice, for I never really spent much time there in real life. But it is filled with things that remind me of John, his laptop, that ridiculous green jacket, his mug. It was in this room (somewhere in a shabby hotel in Slovenia) that I realized I love him.

Mary is sitting right next to me. She looks like the nice woman I got to know during my first weeks back in London. Charming, a slightly childish gleam in her eyes, yet intelligent and open-hearted. Wears jeans and a grey t-shirt that says "I'm with stupid." There is an arrow beneath the lettering, and it is pointing at me. When I move it follows me. Looks like my mind is not in the mood for subtleties today.

"Oh, Sherlock," she says, "look at you. Dying again to safe John. Doesn't it get boring?"

I want to ignore her. Want to turn away and leave her alone. Want to smash her head against the wall until her face is nothing but a bloodied mass. Would be perfect to do it in here. No child to endanger. She smiles, "Not that different, are we?"

There is no running away from the creatures my mind makes up in here, I know that. So I stand still and watch her silently, not knowing where this is leading to. (Ignore the rising fear.) She gets up from the bed and comes to me. Stops right in front of me. (Way too close.) The friendly smile on her face does not quaver when she lightly caresses my cheek. (Repugnant. Yet I stay where I am.)

"This could have been the four of us," she says and tiptoes to ruffle my hair. "Would have let you babysit the little one when going out with John. Would have let the two of you working on as many cases as you would have wanted." She presses an (abhorrent) kiss on my lips. Her voice is playful and soft, "But now you have ruined everything. As always."

The setting around us changes. I am sitting in a chair next to a fireplace, a glass of whisky in my hand. The Cross Keys Inn. Mary is sitting on the armrest, her grey t-shirt now decorated with Christmas trees and elks. The arrow still pointing at me relentlessly. "Telling him you don't have friends? Really, Sherlock."

She moves aside, clearing the view to a frozen image of John sitting in the other chair, obviously hurt. I hate remembering that moment. Probably (definitely) hurt myself more that him. I try to make the look on his face go away, but fail. Apparently am no longer in control of my mind palace at all. Briefly wonder how close to death my body really is.

"That wasn't the first time you have hurt him, right?" Mary whispers into my ear, then lightly bites into my ear lobe. My (imaginary) body shivers in response, and she claps her hands in delight. "Oh, but look at how hurt he is, just because you implied he's not your friend." She looks at John, and all of sudden there is a spotlight on his face, highlighting his pained expression.

This demonstration is completely unnecessary. I am fully aware of how mean that comment had sounded. (Mostly because I had wanted it to hurt him. Was lashing out like an animal in pain.) But I have apologized.

Mary just dismisses that with a wave of her hand. "No, you didn't. You explained. Then you said something nice, to make up for the hurt. But you never said sorry."

Oh. She is right.

"There were so many times you've hurt him, right?" She gives me that innocent smile again, while images of John and me are scrolling down on the wall next to me. I recognize all those situations, but some of them stick out because I regret them more:

Me letting John believe I simply didn't needed him in Soo Lin's flat instead of admitting I was nearly being strangled to death.

Me putting (surprisingly not drugged) sugar in his cup of coffee.

Me, stupidly disguised as waiter, seconds before telling him I'm back.

Me on the rooftop, mobile in my hand.

The last image is the one that makes my chest burn the most. A triumphant grin on Mary's lips, and we are there, on top of St. Bart's. "Two years, Sherlock," she sings, "two years of mourning. That was the worst, wasn't it?"

Yes. And I hadn't seen the impact it had on both of us coming. I step closer to myself, watching the tears running down my cheek. They were real. "Oh, but that does not matter, dear" Mary tuts.

"No," she relentlessly continues, "What matters is that, regardless of how much he means to you, you will always go on hurting him." She comes closer to me, driving me away from my past image, towards the middle of the roof, until I am leaning against a chimney. "Why do you think you will stop doing that just because now you love him?"

I don't think I will stop.

The gleam in her eyes turns into something feral, she moves closer to me again. (Way too close.) "Of course, now that he loves you too, it will hurt him even more than before. Do you really think he deserves that?" She slips her arms around me (dislike that), places her hands on my back. My (imaginary) body stiffens with rejection. She laughs and lets her hands wander down until they rest on my bum.(Dislike that deeply.)

"What do you think, how many times can he still stand all that hurt before he will leave you?" She squeezes my buttocks, then one of her hands moves swiftly to my front. I flinch, but her other hand holds me firmly in place. Stronger than in real life, of course. No way to get away from it. She starts to caress my penis through my trousers. My throat closes, feel like I can barely breathe, and yet my (imaginary) body reacts to her (imaginary) stimulus. (Absolutely embarrassing.)

"He will leave you in the end, and you know that." She is whispering now, her voice low and dangerous. She stops the caressing and grips hard instead. (Stopping exactly on the threshold between arousing and painful.) (Can't stand the embarrassment any longer.) My legs give in, but her hold on my back is so strong that my body remains pressed against her. (Physically impossible.)

"And not just him. Think of the baby, Sherlock." She stretches her hands a little, now also including my balls. (Stop it.)

"Think of how you will grow to love it. How you will see John in it, how you will open up and let it into your big old romantic heart as well." She squeezes me again, with increasing force. (More pain than arousal now, or is it? Not sure.) (Want her to stop. Want her to stop right now.)

"And then you will ruin it, and John will take the baby and they will both leave you." Definitely pain now. I can't help but cry out, (imaginary) sweat on my (imaginary) face. The pain increases, stretches all over my body now. Can't breathe, can't move. (Panic.) The last thing I see is her smiling face right in front of me. Then everything turns bright, too bright, and I close my eyes -

and wake up (for real this time) in a hospital room. While my brain struggles to fully regain consciousness, I feel like I've lost something I never had first place.


	5. Chapter 5

_**My wonderful beta GoSherlocked has reminded me of the fact that a fic that is tagged "hurt and comfort" does not only need hurt, but also comford. Good point! So, here is some.**_

* * *

I keep drifting in and out of sleep, unable to stay awake.

Images of my mind palace melting away, replaced by padded reality. Artificial noises I cannot catalogue. Someone calling my name, then rolling onto my (right?) side and onto my back again. John's voice coming from far away. Try to open my eyes but fail. Fall asleep again.

More voices, unknown. Soft pressure on my (left?) hand. John? Hear his voice (sure it is him now), cannot make out words. Want to tell him I am awake. Try to squeeze his hand, but cannot move. Too tired. Eyes won't open. Asleep again.

Hands on my body. Hear my name. Strange feeling in my throat. Not painful, just unpleasant. Restricted. Breathing against resistance. Dim light. A hand on my cheek, soft words murmured. John. His face close to mine. Oh, my eyes are open now. But unable to deduce anything. Want to touch him, but arms feel like lead. Tired. Fall asleep to the soothing sound of his voice.

A stranger's voice mixing with John's. Light too bright. Blanket removed from my body. Cold. Something even colder and hard pressed against my belly, against my chest. Belly feels tense. Too cold. Want it to be warm again. Feel my legs stir, but am unable to control movement. Leave me alone! Finally the blanket is replaced. Warm. Sleep.

An angry bleeping next to my ear. Breathing is hard. Nearly impossible. Panic. But again, John's voice. Speaking so slowly that I can finally make out words. "Easy, Sherlock. It's all right. You are fighting the respirator. That's good. Take slow, deep breaths." He repeats it over and over again, until I feel safe again. For the first time I really want to stay awake, but sleep blows my consciousness away again.

The next time I wake up, reality is less padded. I can open my eyes, take a closer look at where I am. Familiar cracks on the wall: the room I sneaked away from. Window: sun near the horizon, about six p.m. John: sleeping in a chair next to my bed, head supported by his right hand. Stubble on his face: not shaved for six days. Dark circles around his eyes: high level of stress for more than ten days. Body posture: back tensed up, legs too.

Looks like my condition was even more serious than last time.

I try to say something (egotistically wanting John to be awake, even though he looks like he needs all the sleep he can get.), but no sound comes out. Lips feel strangely numb, tongue is pressed down by something that does not belong there. Memory of John, mentioning respiration. I want to move my hand to my face and touch the tube to verify. But I am too clumsy, or my arm is too long. My hand ends not even close to my mouth, but somewhere next to my head. The movement wakes John. (So I get what I wanted after all.)

He wakes with a start, looks at me and relaxes a little. "Hey, sleeping beauty" he says, aiming for light-heartedness, but sounding tired and exhausted instead. "Don't try to speak, you are still intubated. See?" He takes my hand and places my fingers on the tube, right where it enters my mouth. "Does it feel like you have to fight a resistance?"

I nod, carefully, and he reaches for something out of my visual field. "The doctors want to remove the tube today. I have just rang for a nurse to tell her you are ready." I look at him and try to communicate with my glance only. How do you say "I am so glad you are here" with just your eyes?

"Look, while we are waiting for the doctor … There is something I need to tell you as long as you can't talk back. You know I am not good with this kind of stuff, but … When you were dead, I regretted all the things I've never told you. And then you nearly died again, and I still hadn't told you. And now again, and … Well, you got the point, I suppose. It's time to finally … "

For a moment he stops talking (with words, but continues to talk with his face: stiffens his upper lip, looks into my eyes, looks away again, shakes his head, purses his lips, stiffens his upper lip once more. Whatever he is going to say now, it is important to him.) (I could watch him for hours and hours.)

"I spent the last days trying to make up something half as romantic as your best man's speech, but I can't, so we'll keep it simple."

Does he notice my increasing heartbeat on the monitor? If he does, he does not show any reaction. He takes a deep breath (once more) and says, "Sherlock, I love you. With all my heart. I want you, and I need you in my life. And I know how my life would be without you. Been there, and don't want to go there ever again. I want all the big emotions you can give, you drama queen, and I want all the little things. I want to wake up with you and take care for you when you catch a cold and be annoyed with you when the kitchen is a mess. I love you so much I even dare to be somehow related to Mycroft from now on."

He tries to let it end on a joke, and I would like to play it cool. But how do you do that when there is a tube stuck in your mouth and tears floating down your cheek? He gives me a sheepish little grin, and then wipes my cheeks dry with a cloth. Kisses me gently on my forehead and nods, upper lip stiff again, but a gleam in his eyes that has not been there before.

* * *

John barely leaves my side during the next weeks. He is there when I try to stand up for the first time after the surgery (and fail miserably. No one else would be allowed to see me fail like this.)

He is there whenever yet another tube is pulled out some other part of my body.

He is there whenever someone comes to visit, helps me being nice to them, watches me sharply and hushed them out when he sees that I am getting exhausted. (He is especially alert when Mycroft pays a visit, and at first he is quite taken aback about how close we allow ourselves to be when there is no super villain threaten to watch us, but John gets used to it quickly and stops feeling uneasy in his presence soon.)

He is there when I cry because despite medication there is pain in my chest when I get up and pain when I lay down again and pain when I walk and pain when I sit and the nurses tell me to endure the pain and leave the bed anyway because pain today means it will be better tomorrow but the pain just goes on and on and on.

He is always there, but in some unspoken agreement, we never talk about his declaration of love again.

The only times he is not there is when we agree that he needs to see Mary to pretend that there is a chance for reunion. He goes to the gynaecologist with her twice, because there is a prenatal test for chromosomal abnormalities recommended for couples of their age, and the outcome could be rather tragic, but the baby turns out to be all right.

She is allowed to see me once, and John leaves us alone while I (falsely) assure her that I will talk him around this time. When she leaves and he comes back, he is strangely quiet. "Mycroft has met me at the cafe," he explains, unaware that he is playing with my fingers while he speaks. (I let him, never able to resist his touch, no matter how casual.) "Looks like the prenatal test was not altogether our doctor's idea."

Leave it to my brother to use the cell material collected during that test to confirm that the child is really John's.

* * *

He is also there when I am finally allowed to take a shower and wear my own clothes afterwards. It is amazing how you feel different with trousers and a proper shirt. I feel like myself for the first time in ages. I feel finally brave enough to talk about the most important issue.

"About what you said, when I was still intubated ... " I start. Should have planned what to say, I realize too late. "I ..."

I what?

I love you so much that I cannot stop composing music about you in my head whenever I miss you but cannot bring myself to write down the notes because nothing I compose can ever match your smile?

I love you more than I can tell you because the words I need for it do not exist yet, but I will invent them if you want me to?

I love you so much that I have already ordered a crib and made a plan about how to turn your old room into a nursery?

I love you?

"I ... concur." I hear myself say. (Oh no. Worst possible choice.) My cheeks flush. I wait for the ground to swallow me. Must be any second now.

But John grins (!). (Happily.) Nods. Steps closer and embraces me. "You concur" he giggles. Presses me closer against him. "You old romantic." Can feel his body shaking with (honest) silent laughter. He ruffles my hair (needs to tiptoe to do that) and finally, finally kisses me.

It is a rather chaste kiss, but it takes away my breath and makes my entire body prickle and I am no longer sure how I manage to stand on my own, and it goes on and on and I cannot help but silently thank Mary for shooting me to keep John by her side and thereby driving him to mine.


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft forces me to go to rehab after the hospital. I try to resist, with good reason. John has basically moved in at Baker Street again. He goes to his (other, now fake) home every so often, but more often than not does he sleep in my, no, our bed. Now that he is finally mine I am unwilling to spend so much as a second away from home.

But Mycroft is adamant. Wish I would loath him as much as I always pretend to do. The fact that John supports his idea only makes it worth. I try to make the following weeks tolerable for me by getting to know my therapists better.

Weddings and babies might or might not change things. Kisses and love declarations certainly do. When John makes it perfectly clear that there will be no more kissing until I stop scaring away one therapist a day, I have no choice but obey.

* * *

I want to wait before mentioning the flash drive again until I am sure that John is happier in our relationship than he has been in his marriage. "Prepare to wait a long, long time," my inner Mary whispers into my ear in September, when I forget to concentrate on willing her away during my physiotherapy.

But she has a point, so when I come home, feeling tired out and battered already, I place it on the table. John looks at it for a long time. "Why?" he asks then. "We already know more than enough about her."

A hollow feeling starts to spread through my body. Why not? What reason could he have to avoid it?

"Maybe he has changed his mind about me," my inner Mary giggles. "He went to see me this afternoon, didn't he?" Yes, he did. Spent a few hours with her, pretending (?) that there is a slight chance he might forgive her one day. He objected to it, but went because I told him so.

Did she convince him to really forgive him one day? (Could she? Could he?) Was he reminded of the wonderful (?) time they had? But his boredom-infused nightmares started only days after the marriage. Plus, he loves me. More than her. Whatever it was they had, "wonderful" is clearly the wrong word to describe it.

"Are you sure?" my inner Mary wonders, and so do I.

"What is going on in your mind palace right now?" John's voice makes her crumble to dust. When did he start embracing me? (There is no better place on earth than in John's arms. What a shame I missed some minutes of it.) Instead of answering I lean into the embrace. Does he understand what I am telling him this way? Seems like he does, for he does not ask me again.

We open the file on the flash drive later that night. John keeps on holding my hand, or toughing my knee, or stroking my back the entire time, so casually that I don't have to comment on it. He really is a genius when it comes to handling me.

Studying the Word document, I cannot help but admire her manipulation skills. Everything mentioned is the truth. Only that the data is incomplete, essential facts missing, thus creating a new, better reality.

It mentions exactly the number of atrocious deeds that John could forgive after a while.

He only shakes his head and makes an indignant sound before closing the file. Then he pulls me to bed and presses his body so close to mine that I have no choice but to feel safe.

* * *

"Better get laid soon, it won't be long until you'll hurt him so much he'll go away," my inner Mary purrs while John is kissing me on the sofa in October. I close my eyes as hard as I can, concentrate on where John's hands are right now and what his tongue is doing to my ear lobe right now and wish she were wrong.

Getting laid is far out of my reach at the moment. Not only due to my body that is still struggling to heal, but also due to my inexperience. (Remember how surprised John has been at hearing that Mycroft had indeed been right about me being a virgin. Remember the way my eyes were stinging when he declared it impossible to believe that he is the one who has the privilege (!) to introduce me to sex.)

(Remember my surprise during my first John-made orgasm. Finally understood why people are doing that all the time.)

John decided to "TAKE IT SLOW". And we do. Funny how I can love him even more every day.

Still, the fear of hurting him is never far away. Neither is my inner Mary and her terrible shirt. Looks like the arrow is bigger every time I see her in my mind. Like when I mention to John that I am about halfway through with creating a plan to bring Magnussen down. (One of the few advantages of rehab. Endless time to think about important matters while sitting on that ridiculous stationary bike whose name I delete again every day.)

Apparently not a good topic. John freezes, then leaves without a word. When he returns (after forty-three minutes, breathing hard, wet from the rain, with dirt on his shoes that tells me how fast he has walked and hence how angry he has been) he shouts at me, then leaves the sitting room to make tea (in a really angry fashion that I must admit is as arousing as it is frightening), then finally finally ends up on the sofa with his head on my lap.

"The last time we went to face him you nearly died, Sherlock," he says quietly. Won't listen to the fact that Magnussen himself had no part in me being shot. Won't listen to the fact that there is no one else willing to bring Magnussen down but us.

We continue talking about it for another while, but no matter how lovingly I pet his head, he does not change his mind. It becomes clear that I will have to alter my plan. I will take Magnussen down, no doubt about that. I just won't tell John that he is in it with me more than five minutes in advance.

That night, John needs to be held for hours and hours before he finally falls asleep in my arms.

* * *

"What would he want with an amateur like you in the long run?" my inner Mary laughs in November, when I stumble awkwardly through giving John my first hand job ever.

"Shut up!" I hiss. John opens his eyes and gives me a curious look, but a slight change in the pressure I am applying closes his eyes again and forces out a (wonderful) (aroused) (arousing) moan. I lean forward and let my tongue slip into his open mouth just to make sure he will forget my blunder.

He does not mention it afterwards. But after we went to bed John asks, "What about Victoria?" Out of the blue. Hate when he is doing that at night. When there is light, I can (almost) always tell what he was thinking before throwing a context free line at me. I just have to watch his eye movement. But at night, in near darkness, I am lost.

"Which Victoria?" I have to ask, already narrowing down the possible Victorias from one hundred sixty-eight to fifty-four.

John laughs. A wonderful sound, even when he laughs at my stupidity. "No, as a baby's name," he explains, still (oh so gently) caressing my arm with his fingers. (One thing I never anticipated about John. No matter how wild or hard or inept the orgasm has been, afterwards he is the most gentle person in the world. But did he really imply ...)

Oh. He did. "You want me to take part in naming the baby?" I cannot help myself, I need to verify. I can tell that his movements come to a complete stop for three seconds. Then he pulls me even closer.

"Of course. Sherlock, we are going to raise that child together. Of course we will find its name together." I am sure there are words for all these hot feelings that are filling my chest right now, but I cannot find a single one that would fit.

So instead, I think about names. But how do you name someone you don't know yet?

"What about Hamish?" I ponder, "Or John junior? Or Joan, if it's a girl?" In my mind I can see a three year old version of John hopping from one puddle to the next. A second John, what could be better?

But for some reasons John's body tenses at my suggestion. "No way!" he says, so harsh that there has to be a reason. Have I done something wrong (again)? I do not know what, but that seldom means I did everything right. I hold my breath and wait for his explanation. (He always explains. Knows how lousy I am with this kind of things.)

I have to wait two point six minutes before he elaborates, "There is a horrible tradition in my family. We only name babies after real people when they have died recently or are going to die soon. Sorry, but no Hamish or Joan. That's too scary."

Yes, it is. The thought of John dying is unacceptable, and only having an orgasm immediately will stop me from further thinking about it. (Or so I tell John. He knows it's a trick, but plays along willingly. No wonder I love him.)

* * *

"I think you are running out of time, my dear," my inner Mary taunts me at the beginning of December. She is right, not only concerning my relationship with John.

There is a scan of the baby. John and I come along. Not easy to pretend that I will only be the child's eccentric uncle Sherlock. When we see it moving its arms I am so overwhelmed by what the future could hold for us that I involuntarily squeeze John's hand. I compensate the blunder by quickly grabbing Mary's hand and squeeze it as well.

She has seen me getting over-involved with their wedding. She does not find my over-involvement with their child strange.

Anyway, the more important incident takes place before the examination. We wait, without talking much. (John avoids talking to her, looking grim. Just like we planned.) (I love him endlessly, but I (rightfully) still don't trust his (non-existing) talent to tell lies. Silently grudging is the best choice of action here.) Mary skims through some of the magazines and newspapers that are lying on the table in the waiting room.

When she sees one that belongs to Magnussen's empire, she shudders accidentally. Our eyes lock, and she knows she has given away more than she wanted.

"You know, John," I say without looking away from her, "if you go now, you will be finished before the doctor will see us." He knows that I want him out of the waiting room, and obediently goes to the toilet. She knows that he knows and watches me expectantly.

I play it by the book: lean forward, create a closeness between us that is not there in reality. (Disgusting.) Lower my voice even though we are alone in the room, "I am already working on a plan to take CAM down. My vow still applies to you, no matter what John might feel for you at the moment."

I can read in her face that she believes me. "What will you do?" Clever girl. But I am not willing to give it away, especially not to someone I don't trust at all.

"I cannot tell you the details, but there is one thing you need to know: If John invites you for Christmas, say yes!" Then I best myself, lower my voice even more, "Don't tell John there is a plan. He does not react well to any plans concerning Magnussen."

So we share a secret. Have a common goal. Renewed the bond that was once there.

Now all I have to do to safeguard John's unborn child is conceal my plan from the man I love, deceive his wife, outsmart my brother, probably have my parents drugged and conduct the deal I made with the devil.

For the first time, I am enjoying the Christmas season.


	7. Chapter 7

Christmas comes and I feel glorious. Confident. And something else, something that takes me an (embarrassingly long) moment to identify. A feeling I have so seldom that it hits me by surprise at first. I feel happy.

John, more or less, lives at Baker Street again. We have sex on every suitable surface (really, on every, I'm keeping track) and on a few unsuitable ones. To my utter surprise, it is not only an acceptable price to pay for John's presence in my life. No, it is (fantastic consuming earth-movingly) good. When it is time to sleep we go to bed together, and John does not disturb my sleeping pattern but improves it. When I hold him in my arms before falling asleep he presses his back against my front, so close that nothing can come between us. When he holds me he presses his nose into my curls.

Every now and then he goes back to Mary to stay in their (boring) home for a night or two. I spend some of the time with experiments and planing Magnussen's downfall, and most of the time with not being jealous. Experimenting and planning goes well.

I invite us all to my parents' home for Christmas. To John's surprise, Mary willingly agrees to come along. Mummy predictably forces Mycroft to come as well, not knowing of course that his presence is the key to the success of my plan. (His presence, and that of his laptop of course.)

I write a little speech for John, about the problems of Mary's past and the problems of her future and not having read what's on the stick. It is touching. She will cry when he'll tell her. (And probably embrace him. Maybe even kiss him. Terrible thought. But necessary.)

I had already met Magnussen when I was still in hospital, weeks before Christmas. Making a deal with him was (surprisingly) easy.

My parents are perfect, loving and sweet as always, and Mary is clearly affected by them and the Christmas spirit, just like she is supposed to be. John prepares to deliver his little speech, and we still find time for some secret (elevating) snogging in my old room.

When we sneak out for a cigarette, Mycroft lets me know that he is aware of my plan and approves. He even goes so far and tells me how much he cares for me. (Hope I did not let it show how much I love him in return. He would be an unbearable prick if I did.)

The plan unravels. John "forgives", Mary believes, everybody has punch or tea, John brought his gun and the helicopter is perfectly on time.

In short, for a brief moment all is perfect.

It is still perfect when we get into Appledore with the gun. (Was right, Magnussen does not consider us a serious threat.)

It is still perfect when Magnussen shows us the record of me pulling John out of the bonfire (Love to read John's thought on his face, "How could I not see earlier how much Sherlock loves me?").

It is still perfect when Magnussen explains his chain of pressure points.

It is still perfect when he tells me my plan, but a bit less so. He is slightly too relaxed. Why?

And then everything crumbles away with four little words, "There are no vaults."

There are no vaults.

It echoes in my head, loud and shrill, drowning out John's and Magnussen's voices. There are no vaults.

For a paralysing moment, all other thoughts are erased from my brain. No vaults.

No. Vaults.

And while Magnussen and John move on to go outside, it is still pulsating in my brain, matching my (highly elevated) heartbeat: No. Vaults. No. Vaults. No. Vaults. No. Vaults.

When I can think again, still standing in front of the chamber on my own, it takes me only twenty-two seconds to come to the conclusion: I must destroy all information Magnussen has on Mary. All information Magnussen has on Mary is inside his head. Hence, I must destroy his head.

Coming to that conclusion took little time. Accepting that conclusion takes longer. I am not a killer. I only took someone's life once, in self-defence, and it haunted me for months. I never ever murdered someone.

("I have, by the way, a job offer I should like you to decline," my inner Mycroft repeats the real Mycroft's words.)

And yet, John's gun weighs heavy in the pocket of his coat. I did not have this scenario in mind when I told him to bring it, but it is there, ready to send a bullet into Magnussen's brain. I am not. And yet -

("A job offer I should like you to decline," he said.)

And yet, the near future unravels in my mind. I will not shoot Magnussen. He will try to blame us for selling state secrets. Won't be proven, for there is nothing on the laptop anyway. (I never checked, but am sure of it. Mycroft, always two steps ahead of everyone else.) No matter what Magnussen will do next, Mary will never feel safe again. Will disappear. With the unborn child. Will leave John heart-broken over yet another terrible loss. And in end, it does not matter if John will blame me for losing his child or not. What matters is that he will be broken.

Unacceptable.

Or worse. I will not shoot Magnussen. He will contact some of the people looking for Mary (good people most likely, with good reasons to find her). They will decide to take revenge, killing not Mary, but John instead. Collateral damage, just to make a point.

Absolutely unacceptable.

I follow John and Magnussen. Slowly. No vaults. No alternative. That's what you get from feeling perfectly happy for a while.

("A job offer I should like you to decline." So Mycroft suspected it would come to this and sent me a warning. "An undercover assignment that would prove fatal to you in, I think, about six months.")

A clear warning. The near future unravels in my mind once more. I will shoot Magnussen. In front of Mycroft and his men. Will be imprisoned. Unacceptable, no way to keep my sanity in a prison cell. So Mycroft will try to come to the rescue, but with Serbia being the only alternative. A delayed death sentence. Better than insane. Mycroft will try to rescue me from there, but his chances are slim. So I will be dead. But John will have his child. He will hate me for leaving him, hate me for dying (again), but he will not be broken.

Acceptable.

No vaults. No alternative.

Shooting Magnussen now will only make his security kill us in return. The only acceptable moment to do it is when Mycroft and his minions are already here. So I wait, trying to steel myself for the task. (Why does it feel like I cannot breathe properly?) I have to signal John to accept Magnussen's perverted face-flicking game to buy us time. (My stomach revolting when I'm forced to witness it.)

Watching it should make it easier to accept that I will kill him any minute now. Still, when John says my name for confirmation, my legs feel like giving in. I can barely contain myself. How I manage to answer him is beyond my imagination.

When the helicopter arrives, it is nearly an alleviation. I step forward to join John and Magnussen. To stand by John's side (most likely) for the last time. (And to nick his gun.) Try to prepare him for what I am about to do by summing up our situation. (But he does not get it. Asks me again what we will do. Does not understand what I am trying to tell him, because he never expected me to kill someone in cold blood. Neither did I, but there is nothing I would not do for John Watson.) (Except staying by his side and thereby risking his life.)

I hesitate for one last moment. Magnussen's words echoing in my mind, "No chance for you to be a hero _this_ time, Mr Holmes." No. That much is true. But there still is a dragon to slay. I know that I am talking when I leave John's side (oh, how symbolic!), but I have already forgotten what I was saying. All I really notice is the gun in my hand and the smug look on Magnussen's face and how something I cannot name inside me tears apart when I pull the trigger.

The rest of this night is a blur of noises and shadows and wind and tears and adrenaline and sickness and loss. When my world comes back into focus again, I am sitting in a holding cell, completely alone.


	8. Chapter 8

The cell is austere. Bed, table, chair, shelf, barred window. Basin, behind a door the toilet. More or less. A look out of the window confirms my supposition, Her Majesty's Prison Full Sutton, York.

Of course, I am a category A prisoner. "Those whose escape would be highly dangerous to the public or national security," my mind delivers via my inner Mycroft. "Offences that may result in consideration for Category A or Restricted Status include: Attempted murder, Manslaughter, Wounding with intent, Rape, Indecent assault, Robbery or conspiracy to rob (with firearms), Firearms offences, Importing or supplying Class A controlled drugs, Possessing or supplying explosives, Offences connected with terrorism and Offences under the Official Secrets Act."

I can tell that something is wrong with me when my mind quotes Wikipedia.

So I am located amongst the most dangerous prisoners of the UK. How fitting. Not that I am likely to meet any of them. After my (short, but disastrous) time at Belmarsh Prison in 1998, it was understood between Mycroft and me that contact with other prisoners should be avoided at all costs.

The memory of everything that happened after I … after the shooting (can't even bring myself to name what I did. Tedious!) is still blurred. I need to access my mind palace to recall it all more clearly.

There is a room for re-watching the parts of my life my conscience missed the first time. It used to look like Auntie Rose's living room. Now it is the (only) cinema John forced me to visit to watch a Bond film with him four years ago.

I can tell that something is wrong with me when my mind palace is black and white.

Even here my memory is fragmentary. Apparently I was pushed to the ground by one of the marksmen, firmly fixed. Facing Magnussen's body. His empty eyes staring at me. His glasses askew on his nose, arranged like it could be seen in an overly dramatic B-movie. I want to get a (last?) look at John, but my head is fixed, too.

I was pushed into the helicopter. Of the ride I have no memory except the look on Mycroft's face. (Disappointed? Sad. Scared?)

I was pushed into a grey room where an unimpressed security guard undressed me, searching for guns in my clothes and for drugs in the most private places. Try to delete that memory instantly, but it does not work.

In my cell, rules were read to me. (No contact with other prisoners. One visitor every two days. Daily solitary shower under supervision. Access to the library for good conduct. Thirty minutes solitary workout under supervision.)

I must have slept, eaten, gone to the toilet, but the memory of that is inaccessible. A memory that floats to the surface again and again is Magnussen's dead face.

I think there should be feelings attached to those memories, but there are none. "Bit not good, that" my inner John says with pity. He is translucent, barely visible. He offers me some of his virtual popcorn. I decline.

There have been times when I was isolated before, during what John calls my "hiatus" and before. It never bothered me, for my mind palace has always been a perfect hiding place. Now its colourlessness unnerves me. Every wall, every door is plastered with a poster of Magnussen's dead face. Every person I conjure is translucent.

I get out of there before my mind snaps, but only scarcely so.

When lunch is brought to my cell, I (politely) ask for access to the library. It is denied. I need to show good conduct first. I start to do so by not arguing. John would be proud.

Or would he?

I am still not good with emotions, but I am fairly sure that he is angry with me. (In the long run, he surely will be grateful. When he will hold his baby in his arms, for example. But now, he must be terribly angry, because I managed, once again, to do the only thing he asked me not to do. I left him. Again.)

I spend some time calculating the number of bricks in the walls. Then I delete the result so I can calculate it again tomorrow.

I spend some time looking out of the window, extrapolating tomorrow's weather. (Sunny at first, cloudy in the afternoon. Still too warm for December.)

I am ushered to a small workout room that smells like sweat. A guard (not happy about working on Christmas) watches while I obediently continue the programme I have learned in rehab after I got shot. My inner clock is precise, I am finished after exactly thirty minutes.

I am ushered to the showers. The same guard watches as I undress. I try to deduce if he enjoys his job more, now that I am naked, but fail. Most likely he is simply bored. I am torn between wanting to stretch my stay under the shower to maximise the time I am to spend outside my cell, and hurrying to get away from my guard's impassive observation and get dressed again. I cannot make up my mind, so I simply wait until he tells me to finish.

I can tell that something is wrong with me when I am not only relieved but happy to see Mycroft that afternoon. The first thing I feel all day. He is oozing with concern. "How are you?" he asks. I don't know.

"John has asked permission to visit you," he tells me while watching me carefully. Only one visitor every second day, I recall. "I could arrange for him to come here tomorrow," Mycroft goes on, still scanning my expression carefully. And expose me to John's anger and (How does he feel about having watched me turning from a dragon slayer into a murderer? How does he feel about me leaving him again as a direct result of that?) disappointment? Rather not, thank you.

Mycroft stays for another hour. Tells me he is already negotiating to turn my imprisonment into some kind of service to the crown, but so far Serbia is the only alternative. I wonder if I really deserve something else.

Only when he is gone again do I realise that I have not spoken a single word since asking for permission to visit the library. "Bit not good, that" my inner John says again. I can only agree with him. Silently.

* * *

The second day is nearly identical. I have breakfast. Calculate the bricks in the wall and delete the result. Have lunch. Forecast the weather. Do my workout. Take a shower. Surprisingly, Mycroft shows up again. He brings along a Stratego game. We play eight matches. I lose every single time. He leaves. I have dinner. Go to bed. Lie awake until a restless sleep overpowers me. I don't speak a single word, not even in my nightmare.

The third day is nearly identical. I have breakfast. Calculate the bricks in the wall and delete the result. Have lunch. Forecast the weather. Do my workout. Take a shower. Mycroft shows up again. He brings along Stratego again. We play six matches. I lose every single time, but it is a lot closer now. He leaves. I have dinner. Go to bed. Lie awake until a restless sleep overpowers me. I don't speak a single word.

The fourth day is nearly identical. I have breakfast. Calculate the bricks in the wall and delete the result. Have lunch. Forecast the weather. Do my workout. Take a shower. Mycroft shows up again. He brings along Stratego again. We play four matches. I win the last. He leaves. I have dinner. Go to bed. Lie awake until a restless sleep overpowers me. I don't speak.

The fifth day is nearly identical. I have breakfast. Calculate the bricks in the wall and delete the result. Have lunch. Forecast the weather. Do my workout. Take a shower. Mycroft shows up again. He brings along a Reversi gameboard. We play ten matches. I lose every single time. He leaves. I have dinner. Go to bed. Lie awake until a restless sleep overpowers me. I don't speak a single word, not even in my nightmare.

The sixth day is nearly identical. I have breakfast. Calculate the bricks in the wall and delete the result. Have lunch. Forecast the weather. Do my workout. Take a shower. Mycroft shows up again.

And with him John.

I turn away from them so quickly that our eyes only meet for less than a second. Memories of Mary surface all of sudden. Sitting in our living room. Telling John she does not want to watch how he stops loving her. I finally understand what she means.

I can hear a pair of footsteps moving away (Mycroft), another pair coming closer (John). Coming to a stop right behind me. "Sherlock, ..." he starts and stops again. Impossible to deduce how angry he is with me. Or if he still loves me. (Why should he?) I wish I would still not feel anything.

I silently wait for him to tell me whatever it is that made him take the long journey from London to York. (By helicopter, provided by Mycroft.) Hear him clearing his throat. Brace myself (as much as possible). My body tense, my mind too. Come on, hurry up. Tell me you are angry with me. Tell me that this has been the last time I left you because you are leaving me now. Tell me how you will raise the baby with or without Mary, but definitely without me. How you will grow old without me.

"Sherlock, I am sorry you had to do that for me," he says then, his voice genuinely sorry. His hand softly stroking my back. "I should have been the one to shoot Magnussen, not you. I can never make up for that, love."

That is John for you. Most people (including me, apparently) get him wrong. He is not the Damsel In Distress. He is not the White Knight. In reality, he is the Pauper that turns out to be the real Prince in the end.

"You don't have to," I say softly, my voice harsh from not being used for nearly a week. I find the courage to turn around, look into his (still loving, sad) eyes. This breaks the last straw. I stumble into his (always open) arms, hide my face in his (soft) jumper. Feel him embracing me, steadily, then gently rocking me as I cry over the innocence I've lost the second the bullet hit Magnussen's brain, over the future John and I most likely will not have, over the baby I will not see grow up.

When I am finally done crying (after one hour and thirty-eight minutes), he continues to hold me while I tell him about how it felt to kill (terrible, heart-wrenching, destructive), how I am scared to lose my mind in solitary confinement, how my mind palace betrays me, how much I love him, how I am scared for him and the baby now that he has to face Mary without me, how I do not know what will happen to me and how I missed him. The only thing I do not tell him is that Serbia is really a death sentence, not an escape.

Then he tells me how he still believes that Mycroft will come up with some clever trick, how he will not believe that I will end up in prison for good, how he loves me and how everything will be all right in the end.

I still don't know what will happen to me, or when it will happen. All I know, all I need to know right now is that John's arms will always be open and that killing Magnussen was a small price to pay to protect the love of my life.

* * *

Notes: The quote on category A prisoners is taken from here: wiki/Prisoner_security_categories_in_the_United_Kingdom


	9. Chapter 9

**Note:**

**The scene at the tarmac is the one that needs to be fixed the most. Here we go.**

* * *

The monotonous life of solitary confinement goes on like that for a while. Breakfast, bricks, lunch, weather, workout, shower, visitor, emptiness, sleep. Nightmares. I still don't speak that much. John comes every third day, Mycroft is there in between. We all don't know when this routine will be over, and what will happen then.

I know that Mycroft is doing all he can to negotiate me out of the MI6 assignment in Serbia and out of prison as well. I just don't think that he will be successful. And by the way, I am not sure that I deserve being negotiated out of it. No matter that my motives were noble, in the end I killed a man in cold blood.

It is haunting me more than I care to admit. Sometimes, when all is quiet, I hear the shot echoing in my mind. Sometimes, when I cannot sleep, I remember the look on John's face afterwards. And every time I sleep, I dream of dusk and helicopter noise and red dots and wind and death. After three weeks it becomes clear that I will not be able to stand this life any longer.

John refuses to believe that Serbia will be a death trap. He is completely adamant that Mycroft will find a way out. "You will not die there," he states matter-of-factly while holding me tight. His optimism is so radiant that I tend to believe it as well. Occasionally.

Whenever he leaves, he refuses to say the big goodbye. "I'll see you in three days," he always says and presses a chaste kiss on my nose or my forehead or my cheek. I play along, ignoring the sword of Damocles for a moment.

He always makes sure that we talk about the future, make plans that we will probably (almost certainly) never realise. "We can turn my old room into a nursery," he suggests and makes me talk about wall papers and carpets and changing tables. "I want to introduce you to my parents," he smirks and laughs at my horror-stricken face."We need to talk about how to go on once the baby is born," he says but flatly refuses to do so now, because there will be enough time for it later on.

On his sixth visitor's day he brings along Mary. (Mycroft's idea. She is still to believe we are friends.) I feel like one of those precious John-days is completely wasted. But I am nice to her, because soon I will not be able to protect John and Baby Watson any other way.

She allows me to touch her belly, and Baby Watson kicks against my hand. It renders me speechless for nearly an hour.

When they leave, Mary hugs me and cries because, as she states rather clearly, "we will most likely never meet again." My fragile hope shatters instantly. I catch John's glance over her shoulder. It hurt him just as badly as it hurt me. She is really evil with those little things.

The next two non-John-days pass in a haze. Mycroft ensures me that he is still trying to help me out, "I am already organizing backup for you in Serbia." But I know that he has to be discrete about it and hence is limited in his resources. It is unthinkable what would happen (especially to our parents) should it become widely known that the Iceman is in fact a loving family man.

Mummy and Dad don't come to visit me. They think I am heroically working undercover, extensively protected by my big brother.

When John comes back three days after Mary's visit, he is still clearly shaken. "You will not die," he repeats over and over again. We embrace so hard I can barely breathe. For once, I have to cheer up him, and not the other way round. Funny feeling. Not my most prominent strength.

But I seem to make do.

"I was thinking about Emilia for girl and Anthony for a boy," I let him know after the long long long embrace. (Have given that a lot of thought, carefully avoiding every living relative of him and of me. Of course his belief in the Watson Curse is pitifully weird, but important to him, nevertheless.)

He smiles (open smile with a tint of sadness). "That sounds wonderful," he says. "I was thinking of Grace or Joshua. But Mary insists on Evelyn or George." His parents. He has broken all contact with them, but hopes to see them again one day. Choosing their names for Baby Watson seems to be a loving gesture by his beautiful wife.

But she knows exactly why he does not want the baby to be named after living relatives. Knows exactly that so far, if the name of a relative is used for a Watson child, it is the name of a dying or dead relative. With the sad exception of Auntie Rose who had a deadly car accident just three days after her niece had been named after her.

In the end it is just another cruel move by his bossy wife. The thought of leaving John and GraceOrJoshua with her is even more scary than my imminent death. Need to talk about it with Mycroft soon.

When John leaves that day, he is extremely fierce about the "See you in three days" part of saying goodbye. He tells me about the scan they will have tomorrow morning, that will most likely tell them if it will be an Emilia or an Anthony. "Grace or Joshua" I correct him, and he smiles again.

The next day, Mycroft comes along earlier than usually. He does not have to say a word. I know that I will leave for Serbia now.

We keep our (inevitable) conversation factual. Mycroft promises to work out a plan for John and GraceOrJoshua that is strongly orientated on what John wants. I state my confidence in his ability to work out a way to support me in Serbia. He informs me about the (suicide) mission, tells me all about (very rare) safe houses and (even rarer) supporters. I quip about how grateful I am that I was allowed to keep my hairstyle in prison. He sneers at my vanity in the face of danger.

We spend fifteen minutes pretending I will return to England after successfully finishing my assignment. Fifteen minutes for me to dream of a domestic bliss I never knew I wanted. John in the kitchen, preparing tea. GraceOrJoshua sleeping in my arms. The smell of infant all over the flat. Mrs Hudson and Molly standing by to babysit while John and I solve spectacular cases and have spectacular sex afterwards. Fifteen minutes to believe I still have a future.

"We should bid farewell here, not out in the open," Mycroft says then. I prepare to shake his hand when the unspeakable happens. He ignores my outstretched hand and pulls me into a fierce embrace. One of his hands is holding me at my back, the other is pressed against the back of my head. He does not say a word, just holds me tight and pets my curls.

This is when I know for sure that I will die.

There is nothing left to say really, so I remain silent. Just allow myself to lean into the embrace, feel like the ten year old boy that snuggles against big brother in the aftermath of a devastating hour at the vet. Thankfully he ignores the tears in my eyes when letting me go again.

"I will continue to try helping you out," he promises on our way to the car, but his heart is not in it. He knows that course is lost.

"You will keep John and the baby safe," I instruct him, "that will be your top priority." Because there is no telling what Mary will do if John tries and leaves her.

Will he still try and leave her with me dead? I don't know. (Breaks my heart.)

At the tarmac, we wait for John and (inevitably) for Mary. Enough time to contemplate how I can let John know that there is no hope for me any longer. (Because, just saying so out in the open, even in front of his body guard, could compromise Mycroft's cover. The world is not to know that he tried to help me out at all. All of sudden, I am tired of playing games, speaking in riddles, making believe.)

When they arrive Mary hops out of the car, grinning. She can barely conceal how happy she is to see me leave. Still, we both play the game one last time, feigning sympathy, hugging, touching arms. Exchanging a smile. She lets go of me and marks her territory by linking arms with John immediately. Another little mean gesture. Disgusting.

John is so stiff that I am afraid he will put his back out. Dark bags under his eyes. Looks nearly broken. I can barely stand seeing him like that. A tiny tiny part of me hopes that I'll be in the plane soon, just to bring this painful goodbye to an end. I manage to send the others away so John and I can talk one last time in (relative) private. (For who knows how many bugs there are attached to the plane or to the car or to the body guard or to whatever. That's the game Mycroft plays, with the Mycrofts of other nations and other organisations.)

John tries to keep up his smile, but can barely look at me. What I want to do is take him in my arms and kiss him senseless, pressing our pelvises together and feel him getting hard right here in front of everyone. Or hide in his arms and cry like a little child, make him caress me and press those chaste little kisses on my face. Or just stand opposed to him and look into his wonderful eyes for hours, see his love for me shining through.

What I do instead is letting him know that there really is no hope for us any longer. "William Sherlock Scott Holmes," I say, "if you're looking for baby names." Meaning: I am dying.

"No," he says and adds quickly, "we've had a scan. We're pretty sure it's a girl." Meaning not only "It will be a Grace" but also "No, you are not dying."

My heart beats faster at the prospect of baby Grace cuddled up in John's arms. So when he says that the game is over, I disagree vehemently. Because no matter that I won't be there, he will have her to protect and to love and to admire.

I cannot bring myself to say goodbye just yet, so I chat about a story Mycroft told me when I was young. Then we talk about my "undercover work in Eastern Europe" as if John would not know about it just to make sure that Mycroft's cover works (I owe that to him for trying to safe me all those years. Plus it gives me another stolen minute in John's company.) I bravely lie about the suicide aspect of it, just to make sure, leaving it with an uncertain but fake "Who knows".

I am unwilling to stop talking, not ready yet to leave him for good, so I keep on talking. "John, there's something I should say ..." I start, not knowing where this sentence will lead me. "I-I've _meant_ to say always and then never have." If I don't stop myself now, I will declare love beyond death to him right here. Think, Sherlock. Find a better ending to this ludicrously pathetic speech. "Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now."No, not better. Still too close to "I will always love you". But I will. Does he know?

I watch him, see him squirm, see the expression on his face, the haunted look in his eyes. He knows. And that is what I will leave behind this time. When I jumped off the roof, I left a broken man who had no idea how much he was loved. No, I leave behind the man who would have been willing to raise a baby with me, who loved me spiritually and physically in more ways I ever thought possible, who will soldier on no matter what. Who knows that I am saying "I love you" right now without needing to hear it.

Who still holds the misguided hope that I will not die within the next six months. So I try to make it crystal clear one last time, "Sherlock is actually a girl's name." Meaning: "I will die. Please forgive me for leaving you."

I watch him crack up, trying to regain his composure and fail for a moment. Neglecting it again. A true smile crosses his face then, when he understands that I have also said "I love you" one last time. I take it in, make a mental picture of it that I will hide in my mind palace, planing to hide it until the moment I die, and the take it out and look at it while my life ends. (If I die slowly, that it.)

I am probably smiling back for a second, tears already stinging. I desperately need to get it together now, or I will break down right here. So I collect myself, and instead of hugging and kissing and loving I stretch out my hand, "To the very best of times, John."

He hesitates for what feels like hours, apparently contemplating hugging and kissing and loving himself, but bravely plays along in the end. Shakes my hand, looks me straight in the eye, cannot bring himself to say something. When my heart is utterly completely broken by the look in his eyes, I turn around and enter the plane without looking back again.

I even sit on the right side of the plane, knowing that looking out of the window there I will not see him (standing next to Mary, probably even holding hands) as the plane departs.

* * *

**Note: Oops, that turned out a bit more heartbreaking than I thought, but fortunately we all know that the plane will turn around soon.**


End file.
